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Exhausting Me
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Satish Verma The faint scars were
becoming green. I remember
my bewitchment of me―
not becoming.
Like pine needles. I
will ask my muse, to confuse
me with some shock depriving
me of aura.
Why do you enter my den
to enrich me with golden words?
I go crazy in phrasing―
the stars and mouthing the moon.
It was a charisma. In my
stasis, I tend to forget me,
start wearing your voice.
Will you some day ask, why?
On silver stairs sits
a marathoner.
